


Peek

by yeaka



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:41:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26963104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Connor sees ween and crashes.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 17
Kudos: 97





	Peek

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I stole this idea from [Brycemase’s commentary in his current DBH Let’s Play.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VZ5-hWyk--Q&ab_channel=Brycemase) (Yes he gave me permission to use his LPs for dirty fic ideas. But this fic won’t get as dirty as you want.)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Detroit: Become Human or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The third time he hits the doorbell, Connor holds his finger down, letting the alarm drone non-stop through the small house, until he decides that it’s not fair to Sumo and finally stops. Hank still doesn’t answer. Deviant or not, Connor’s not a human being, and his shoulder blades don’t tense—he can’t really _worry_ , but it inexplicably _feels_ like he’s nervous anyway, because the last time this happened, Hank was drunk out of his mind with a loaded gun.

He doesn’t think Hank’s played Russian roulette again. At least, he hopes not. He’d like to think that he’s shined some light in Hank’s life, however small, and that he’s made some difference—that his partner’s not quite so close to the edge anymore. He can’t take that risk. Connor swore he’d never break a window again, but he does traipse around the house, peering through the blinds. At least it’s not raining. 

He can see Sumo inside, peacefully asleep on the floor, unbothered by the doorbell, but Hank’s nowhere to be found. The kitchen’s empty, neater than usual, because Connor did a quick cleanup when he stopped by yesterday morning with a surprise cup of coffee. It’s eight o’clock at night and too late for coffee, but a report’s come in, and lately Hank’s phone has been going straight to voicemail—probably because he doesn’t _want_ to work after hours.

Connor’s always ready to work. He circles the entire house, checking every nook and cranny he can, before he finally decides peering through windows isn’t enough. And leaving’s not an option. It’d be one thing if Hank answered and said _go away_ , but it’s another to see the lights on and hear the faint hum of the television and know that he’s probably in there somewhere. Maybe he’s passed out in the bedroom. Maybe he slipped in the bathtub. Maybe he’s curled up in his closet like the frightened child in the movie they watched last week, desperately needing someone to come and hug him.

If Hank’s in trouble, Connor can be the one to fix it. He finds himself outside the back door and twists the handle, pleased that Hank clearly forgot to lock it again. Connor lets himself inside and doesn’t bother wasting time stepping out of shoes or shedding his jacket. He marches straight down the hall, calling out, “Lieutenant—!”

The bathroom door opens, and Hank steps into the hall, wholly and utterly naked from head to toe. 

Hank’s head swivels to Connor. His eyes go wide with palpable alarm, breath visibly stalled. Connor’s optic sensors force a simulated blink, and then his gaze slowly trails down the ripe curves of Hank’s aged body, automatically memorizing every slump and rise and wrinkle. He can’t help himself. He’s never seen Hank _naked_ before. Connor drinks in the swell of new data like a fresh bag of thirium, visually devouring Hank’s broad shoulders, the coarse hair littering his beefy chest, the protrusion of his stomach and the jut of his hips, his thick thighs and the long, pink cock hanging heavy between his legs. Connor makes it all the way to Hank’s feet before trailing up again, retracing the data, mapping out every single inch of Hank’s glorious—

“What the _fuck_ Connor!” 

All at once, Hank lurches to life. Connor notes how red his cheeks have gotten, how his whole body’s flushed, how it’s still glistening wet with stray droplets from the shower, mostly dried but still slick in places, and how the arc of his dick has changed ever so slightly since seeing Connor—

Hank turns on his heel and all but flies back into the washroom. The door slams shut. Connor can hear rustling on the other side, and then the door jerks open and Hank’s back, this time with a towel clutched around his waist. It doesn’t make any sense, Connor laments the change. He finds himself calling up the visual file from two minutes ago. He overlays it with the current Hank and sees _everything_ again, adjusting for Hank’s more confident stance now that he’s covered up. The towel still dips low down his waist. There’s also a slight dent in the towel that would indicate Hank’s cock has risen, presumably filling out with blood, producing _an erection_ , something Connor shouldn’t need to know for his job but downloaded anyway for the Eden Club case, except this isn’t some dead victim but _Hank_. Hank’s penis is considerably larger than Michael Graham’s was. Hank snaps, “Connor!” And Connor realizes that Hank’s already said something, and Connor’s audio processors didn’t pick it up, because his system was so overwhelmed in its analysis of _Hank naked._ Maybe it’s been too long since he last recharged. He forces himself to meet Hank’s eyes.

“Yes, Lieutenant?” He was, of course, already aware that Hank was objectively _handsome_ , but suddenly, Hank’s chiseled face is a whole new experience. A few stray silver strands are slicked across his forehead, his plush lips are twisted in a frown, and he has the _sweetest_ eyes. Connor can read all sorts of _emotions_ in them, something he both envies and admires. Hank smells faintly of lemon juice—perhaps a component in his shampoo. 

“I said you need to knock first!”

“I did.”

Somehow, Hank’s cheeks find a way to turn even redder. They’re back to staring at one another, and it occurs to Connor then that Hank’s never seen _him_ naked, and maybe Hank would find that as fascinating an experience as Connor just found Hank’s naked body. They’re _very_ different creatures. Connor doesn’t have half so many _details_. He’s meticulously _smooth_ with only the occasional mole, but Hank’s an uneven plane of bumpy blemishes and matted hairs and textured skin that would probably feel so _thrilling_ under the sensitive pads of Connor’s fingertips. The differences are far more exhilarating than Connor would have anticipated. 

Maybe because Connor’s not saying anything—his system is once again overrun with images and observations and pre-constructing _right-out-of-the-shower-Hank_ , then pre-constructing _touching_ Hank, and Hank prompts, “So... is there a case, or...?”

Connor makes the executive decision that, “It can wait.” Because it seemed important when he was alone at the precinct, but it’s not actually time-sensitive, and now he realizes there are much more important things, like what does Hank look like from behind when he’s not wearing anything? The way he shuffled back into the washroom didn’t give Connor a proper angle to examine it in detail. 

He’s staring solely at Hank’s crotch. But in his peripherals, he’s distantly aware that Hank’s giving him a funny look. Hank actually asks, “Are you broken?”

Connor’s a premium, state-of-the-art, highly advanced prototype that should never break. 

But he’s been thinking about Hank’s dick for the past four point three minutes, so maybe he is broken. 

That’s unacceptable. He might be a free android no longer beholden to CyberLife, but he still has a _job_. He needs to work cases. Catch _bad_ deviants. He can’t do that if he’s busy pondering the slope of Hank’s sac. 

He dazedly admits, “I require a system’s check.” And he forces himself to move forward, weaving past Hank to park himself in the living room. He can’t remain in the hall. Hank’s in the hall. He can’t go to the bedroom. Hank’s clothes are in the bedroom. That’s where Hank _changes_. And he certainly can’t go in the bathroom, because that’s where Hank _takes all of his clothes off and gets in the shower and runs water all over his scrumptious body._

Hank mumbles, “Uh, okay... I’m just... gonna get dressed...” and then his footsteps pad off, disappearing in the vicinity of the bedroom. Sumo glances up from his place in front of the television to give Connor a sympathetic look. 

Connor assures the dog, “I’m sure I’m fine.” Then he shuts himself down to reboot and hopefully handle fully-clothed-Hank better on the restart.


End file.
